The Storm and the Matriarch

Houna moved like stone—slow but unstoppable. At seventy-eight, her body bore the weathered signs of time, but her mind remained sharp, her instincts lethal. Age hadn't softened her—it had crystallized her into something impenetrable.

She hadn't stepped into the open world of the underworld in nearly five years. Not since she helped Gina vanish. But silence didn't mean absence. In the shadows, she still held influence. Her name alone could cause hesitation, even among the most hardened players.

So when the message came from Don Silvano himself, she didn't ignore it.

It arrived in the form of a leather-bound ledger, its corners cracked, its pages yellowed with time. Inside, pressed between coded receipts and silent contracts, was a simple note.

"It begins again. Lansing breathes too loudly. Prepare."

Houna traced her fingers over the paper. She didn't need more explanation. Don Silvano never spoke twice.

She turned slowly in her carved wooden chair and dialed a number from memory—a secure line. One that only rang to a certain room in Gina's fortress.

Gina answered on the second ring.

"Aunt."

"Child."

There was a long silence before Houna spoke again. "It's time."

Gina didn't argue. "He made his move."

"And we'll make ours. I'm returning."

"I thought you said you were done with war."

"I was," Houna said coolly. "But war wasn't done with me."

The first strike came hours later—not in blood, but in legacy.

Richard Lansing received a handwritten letter delivered by an anonymous courier. It was addressed to him in a calligraphy few still used. He recognized the style immediately.

Houna.

Inside was a photograph of a woman—frail, white-haired, but undeniably beautiful. Her name: Marianne Lansing.

His wife. Dave's mother. Presumed dead by the world, but very much alive.

The image was dated only two days prior.

She was in a hospice, somewhere lush. The background hinted at a European coastline. She was smiling.

The message beneath the photo was short:

"She breathes. Because I let her."

Richard's hands trembled.

No one—not even his inner circle—knew where Marianne was. He had hidden her away after her breakdown, buried the story, silenced the staff. It was his final proof that he controlled everything.

And now, that illusion was shattered.

Houna sat in a quiet courtyard under a canopy of olive trees. She watched as a young boy played in the fountain nearby. Her bodyguard sat at a respectful distance, but within reach. She didn't look like a threat. That was the danger.

Her phone buzzed once. A secure message.

"Message received. He knows."

She allowed herself a single, satisfied breath.

"You think I didn't watch you rise, Richard?" she murmured. "I watched you climb by stepping on corpses. But you forgot one thing."

She turned to the fountain, as if addressing the water itself.

"No one steps on my blood and survives."

Later that night, Gina met her aunt in a secure retreat buried within the Alps. The air was cold and thin, but the fire inside blazed high.

Houna sat wrapped in dark green velvet, her gray eyes still sharp enough to slice.

"You've done well," she said, lifting her glass. "Stronger than I ever was."

"I'm only standing because of you," Gina replied, pouring her own drink.

"We're not done standing. He will come harder next time. Men like Lansing never take humiliation lightly."

Gina nodded. "And I won't take Davina's safety lightly either."

"She reminds me of your mother," Houna said wistfully. "So much fire in her little hands."

"She's already asking questions."

"Then you teach her how to survive the answers."

Elsewhere, Richard Lansing stood alone in his study, the photo of Marianne laid out beside the engagement contract.

His hands still shook.

She was alive.

And worse—someone else had found her.

He picked up the secure line and called a name only whispered in the oldest rooms of the underworld.

"I need extraction. And silence. Whatever it costs."

A pause.

A voice responded: "And when she's recovered?"

Richard stared at the photo, his face unreadable.

"She disappears again. For good."

But this time, Richard was no longer sure he was the one doing the disappearing.

Because Houna was back.

And she never played fair.

In the morning, the world would go on. But in the corners of power, the whispers had already begun:

"The storm has a name. And it wears a crown."